


come out to the sea, my love

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, ridiculous smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: If Sansa can keep this casual, so can he. (But that's only the first lie he tells himself.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know jonsa week is happening, but my brain + prompts don't actually work? so. yeah.

 

_I don't want a smoke, I don't need a drink  
_ _Just tell me how you feel, tell me what you think_

* * *

 

 

The setting is familiar, like the beginning of every soppy, stupid story about idiots in love.

There is a party that gets a little out of control, Margaery Tyrell at its heart, soaking attention like sunshine, and there's Sansa, her dress too short, her heels too high, her hair beginning to frizz in the sticky humidity of King's Landing at the height of summer. Her lips feel a little numb from too much booze, and the world is hazier and sweeter, lit in soft-focus, all pink and neon and forgiving edges as she totters back to the bar, her grin this side of too sloppy.

There is a party, sure, a girl who's gotten a little too drunk, yeah, and music throbbing in the background, all amped-up jazz, blues layered with percussive basslines, the kind that make you want to _dance_.

And there's a hot bartender.

Of course, there's a hot bartender.  
I did promise this was one of _those_ stories, didn't I?

(His name is Jon Snow, her brother's best-friend-slash-flatmate, and his work outfit consists of dark-wash jeans and a ridiculously tight white v-neck, the kind that should make him look like an unfuckable douche, but instead just highlights the broad, beautiful lines of his body, the hard line of his collarbones, the dark hollow at the base of his throat, with his sleeves rucked up to his elbows, expertly flipping bottles and mixing cocktails. He's...

Sansa wants to take him apart with her _teeth_.

Christ, being this pent up is aggravating. She needs to cut herself off. After one more shot. Just one.)

His name is Jon Snow, and there's been something simmering between them all month, ever since she graduated, got into KL. Sansa plans to Do SomethingTM about that - it's either that, or implode from sheer horny desperation, and dammit, she's too young to die.

* * *

 

 

_‘Cause I’ve been on my own for a fuckin’ while  
_ _And I don’t need a girl, I just wanna smile_

* * *

 

 

"You're _drunk_ , sweetheart."

Sansa squirms on the barstool, and quirks up a brow at the bartender. His voice. Sansa wants to paint it- god. All golden and mellow and velvet, icemelt rushing over gravel.

"One more, then," he relents, sliding the shot over the her.

"All by myself?" Sansa mumurs, tracing the rim of the shotglass with her pinky, chin cupped in her free hand, a cheeky, bright grin at him as his eyes flash with heat. She watches the veins in his forearms bulge slightly as he grabs a shot glass of his own and slops in vodka carelessly, watching her constantly, eyes flitting to her mouth and the low, low neckline of her dress, drifting back up to her eyes with lazy, heated appraisal. Sansa resists the urge to shy away from him. If he was wearing as little as she was, she'd be losing her _mind_. Thanks be for small mercies?

"Cheers, love," he mutters, and they down their drinks in one.

"When do you get off?" she asks, and promptly blushes at the stupid, stupid entendre. He chuckles, eyes crinkling in a genuine smile, and the heat curling in her belly has nothing to do with the delirious quantities of alcohol she's downed tonight. 

"Right now, if you like," he says. "I've got a friend who'll cover for the rest of the night."

Sansa takes a shuddering breath, heart rate picking up all of a sudden, anticipation quickening her breathing, her cunt clenching on nothing. She swallows, flashes a crooked grin and replies, "I like right now, yeah."

* * *

 

 _Talk is overrated, let’s just vibe  
_ _And love is overrated in my mind_

* * *

 

**_A few weeks later_ **

 

" _San_ \- _fuck_ , sweetheart, not the-" Jon murmurs, laughingly, but he follows willingly enough when she leads them to the coat closet, a coy smile curving up her lips, and a whisper of, "Do you want my mouth on your cock or not, Jon Snow?" that makes his eyes turn dark with a violent kind of lust, black and urgent, a hand wrapping around her wrist as he kicks to door closed behind them and slants his mouth over hers.

"Fucking _dirty_ , Jesus god," he mutters, leaning back against the door, tugging her body closer to his, hands roving down her back, silk warming between their skin, rutting the hard swell of his cock against her stomach, licking the taste of lemondrops from her mouth, chasing her soft, low moan when he bites down on her lips a little too hard.

But she tugs away from him, and he reflexively pulls her closer - her laugh is muffled against his shoulder, and he feels her fingers wroking at the buckle, pulling the belt open and she drops a kiss to his shoulder, and then- _god_ , and then drops to her knees. Her eyes are bright in the dim, impenetrable gloom of the closet, and Jon reflects there's probably, a better place to do this, a bedroom upstairs, an attic, a master bath somewhere, for god's sake-

They've been doing this for nearly two weeks now, two blissful, fantastic weeks of getting his hands all over her gorgeous body, and his mouth on her cunt, to the point that even Thorne, the guy who runs the Night's Watch pub and restaurant, commented on it. If commented could mean Alliser crankily growling, "Wipe that stupid look off yer mug, boy. We have thirsty customers," slapping his back, and stomping into his back office, where everyone pretended he wasn't going to get drunk on cheap scotch. 

Outside the coatroom, the party is in full swing, a Stark family bash for Arya's graduation, more than a hundred people present and accounted for, all for the sole purpose of making Arya both miserable and elated at once. Here, though, the noise is dampened, hushed, light filtering in a thin, bright band of gold through the crack in the door. Here, it's just them, and they don't need to hide anymore.

Sansa leaned forward, unzipping his trousers carefully, shoving aside the crumbled fabric of his shirt, mouthing at the darkened fabric where his cock is leaking against the taut cotton. Jon bucks forward helplessly, and her nails dig into the vee of his hips in reponse. A groan shudders out of his throat, as she slowly peels his boxer briefs down, palms flat against the door, breath harsh and laboured, eyes tightly shut away against the image of her - red hair twisting up into some elaborate mess, the long, naked line of her back, blood-red skirts pooled around her knees, and her _eyes_... eyes so fucking blue they hurt to look at sometimes.

A dart of pain shoots up and Jon gasps, eyes flying wide open. She's looking up at him, as she licks her palm, sloppy-wet, and wraps it around the base of his cock, tugging quick and hard. 

"Look at me," she hisses, a harsh vehemence in her voice, as she looks away, wrapping her pale rosebud mouth around the head of his cock, sinking down on him, tight-heat and soft and _wet_ \- His hips twitch forward, his hands clenched into fists, and her hand comes over his, guiding it to the back of her neck and she bobs down again, swallowing slowly, perfectly, a vise of _molten_ , burning heat- 

" _Sansa_ ," he says, he groans, he pleads, he prays, his grip growing tighter, crueller around the back of her neck, forcing her to take him deeper, begging her to swallow his cock until it's all she can taste, and she _does_ , she does- god, she's _perfect_ , made for him- 

She looks up at him, her skin faintly lumiscent in this light, a hand fisting up his cock, tears dripping out the corner of her eyes and she moans, around his cock, and his head bangs back against the door as he comes, the world whiting out for a long second. She hums, drawing back with an obscene 'pop,' working him through the aftershocks.

His knees buckle, and he doesn't fight it, slumping down until they're eye-to-eye.

"Sansa," he says again, their foreheads pressed together, his hands cupping her jaw, thumbs wiping away the faint wetness of her tears. "Did I hurt- Was I too- I'm _sor_ -"

"No," she replies, careful to kiss the corner of his mouth, as if not to offend, "No, Jon, you were fine."

He chuckles at that, hollowly, and he can taste lemondrops in his mouth when he kisses her again. She gasps, flinching back, and he curls a long lock of coppery hair around a finger, tugging. 

"Let me kiss you?" he murmurs softly, a thumb on her chin, his eyes on her lips, bee-stung and swollen and red. "Please?"

A fine, subdued tremor runs down her spine when she nods. He kisses her again, and again, slow and sweet, tasting himself, bitter, until it washes away, and only sweetness remains, only Sansa. _God_ , Jon thinks, drunk on this, on just being with her in the darkness, and feeling more than a little cliched, if he could die kissing Sansa Stark, he'd die a happy man.

It's like a sick joke - boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, boy falls in love like a tactless, idiotic puppy. If he had any sense, Jon thinks dazedly, he'd stop this before it screws him up beyond recognition. There's a point where masochism just becomes pathetic, and there's a chance he crossed that line the first time he took her home.

But Sansa makes a little noise of desperation, fingers curling into the back of his neck, tilting him back so she can kiss him harder, and Jon knows he's powerless to stop whatever _this_ is.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_"Sansa's not coming tonight?"_  
_"Nah. She's a got a date. Pass the remote?"_  
_"...a date."_  
_"Yeah. That Baratheon kid? Jory, Jeffrey, something. The_ remote _, Jon."_  
_"Right. Sorry."_  
_"Hey man, you alright? You've gone whiter than Ghost."  
__"No, I'm- I'm fine, Robb. Is the game on yet?"_

* * *

 

 

"What about you?"

Sansa smiles over her shoulder, pushing the door open cautiously and peeking into the dim, golden hallway, as the clamor of the party - a string quartet and laughter, a champagne fountain burbling cheerfully in the distance - filter into the coatroom. "You can owe me," she replies, blue eyes hooded, downcast, a dimple in one cheek as she notes the coast is clear and returns to the party, to Arya's side.

Jon will join them a little later, she knows without asking. They've got this down to a science - this business of bodies seeking pleasure in the darkness, hurried kisses and stifled sighs, dark bruises caught in secret places on their bodies. 

Sansa tries not to think about the crescent-shaped scars she's gouged into his hips; tries not to wonder if he'll trace them tonight before falling asleep. She returns into the fold of the party, with a light deflection about checking with the caterers. Thinking about him like  _that_ hurts - and hasn't she done enough damage to herself already?

After all, she would've made a fool of herself again, would've thrown herself into his arms, if he'd just-

If he'd  _wanted-_

But no. Apparently, Jon Snow was more of the same - interested in her pretty face, so long as she didn't bother him with wanting  _'more'_ , and didn't that make  _her_  the idiot?

That she wanted him so  _desperately,_ she'd let him do whatever he liked?

She drains her champagne flute dry, and signals for a fresh glass to a passing server, and her lips twitch in a hidden, bitter flash of a smile. Maybe Rowling had it right.

_It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget how to live._

Alright, then. As long as he wants her, then, she'll  _live_. And when it ends... life will go on. If something in her chest crumples in awful, numbing fear at that thought... Well.

That's for her to know, and him to never, ever,  _ever_  find out.

* * *

_"You're- You're not going to stay?"_  
_"Can't. Got a bartending gig tonight, and a paper to write for Professor Mormont. Have you seen my shirt?"_  
_"I think it's under? The bed? Um... You, uh. You free tomorrow?"_  
_"Hm? Oh, no I, uh- Ygritte and I are catching the new Blackraven movie."  
__"Like... Like a date?"  
__"Mm, yeah. See you, San."_  

 

_"...bye, Jon."_

* * *

 

 

"So," Robb says, uncapping a beer and passing it to him, before repeating with his own bottle. "Who's the bird?"

Jon inhales his drink, spluttering and turning splotchy red. "The-  _what?_  Who?"

Robb smirks. "The girl you've been banging all month," he replies, as Sansa, Theon and Arya traipse into Jon's living room, arms loaded with nachos and guac and cheese dip and huge bowls of popcorn. "Who is she? We ever gettin' an introduction?"

_Deflect_ , Jon thinks wildly, glimpsing the bright copper of Sansa's hair in the corner of his eye. Her t-shirt's soft and worn, clinging to her, and-  _Fuck, goddammit, focus, **deflect**._

"Do people still say banging?" Jon asks the room at large, idly. 

"I don't think they do," Sansa replies, with equal boredom, settling down on his other side and nicking his bottle for a long draught. "' _Banging_ '..." she murmurs, delicately, handing him the bottle back, tucking herself under Jon's arm, as Robb's glare grows increasingly pronounced. "Very fifth grade, isn't it?"

"That's not the-" Robb splutters. "Shut  _up,_  San, this is important."

" _You_  shut up," Arya retorts, twisting around in her beanbag to flick popcorn at his face. "It's starting."

Movie nights at Robb's had started back when he'd just moved to the capitol, he and Jon, and gotten a flatshare in Downtown KL dirt-cheap from Yoren, on account of them being family, Yoren owning the building, and general, you know, shameless nepotism. That kind of thing. 

(They'd had better options, of course. Dany had emailed Jon literally  _hours_ after he'd received his acceptance letters in the mail, furthering his absolute conviction that Daenerys Targaryen secretly Ran The Country.

And possibly, the world.

She'd offered up a whole wing of her mansion, for him and whatever friends he cared to bring along, and Jon thought about every James Bond movie he'd watched - audio bugs and tracking devices and hidden cameras that followed your every move.

Very politely, his hands  _not_ shaking, fuck you very much, he had typed out that he already had an alternate arrangement, and then  _begged_ Robb to find a two-bed near uni.

Jon had a sneaking suspicion that Daenerys knew he was lying, and didn't particularly care. I mean, he was still  _alive_ , wasn't he?)

Theon had been homesick for Winterfell, rooming with his sister in a crappy bed-sit near the docks, who kept pulling girls better than Theon could've  _dreamt_ possible - 'How the  _fuck_  didn't I know there's so many dykes in this town?' he'd lamented, and both Robb and Jon had slapped him upside the head for that, rolling eyes in perfect sync - and one day, after Ygritte dumped Jon's pitiful arse, Robb had sat him down with every single Saw movie and B-grade spinoff in creation.

It had taken Jon and Robb three days and eight boxes of extra-large pepperoni, double cheese, thick crust - between college and the odd bartending gig and bathroom breaks - to work through all of the movies. Theon had joined them about halfway through, pitching in for six-packs and the occassional order of lo mein and moo shu, and a tradition was formed.

The opening credits of  _The Princess Bride_  roll onto the screen, as Theon settles on the carpet in between Robb's knees, his back against the sofa. Wordlessly, Robb hands him his beer bottle, and Theon drains it in a go, Adam's apple bobbing furiously in the soft, gold light of the TV screen, throwing him in deep, shadowy relief. Robb gulps dryly, and focuses back on the screen.

You do  _not_  ruin classic children's movies with boners. Some things are _sacred_.

* * *

 

 

_"Why do you do it?"_  
"Do what?"  
_"The bartending. It's not like you need the money. Did you hide my underwear?"_  
_"I didn't_  hide- _It's on the bedpost, woman. And what's that supposed to mean?"_  
_"How did it_ **get** _th- You know what? Never mind. Look, isn't your dad's family, like, loaded? I heard you're a trust fund baby."_  
_"Your t-shirt's inside out. Where the hell did you hear that?"_  
_"Crap, thanks. Look, I don't know, somewhere! Stop_ **glaring** _at me! God, sensitive much?"_  
_"I don't like talking about my- about them."_  
_"Oh. I'm- um. Sorry? Look, if you're going to nap here, remember to lock up when you leave? I need to get to class. There's spare keys in the top drawer."_  
_"You don't mind?"_  
_"Nah. You need the sleep, and Robb snores like a freight train. You look awful."_  
_"Gosh, thanks."  
__"You're welcome, pretty boy. Bye!"  
__"Bye, Sansa."_

* * *

 

 

The movie is, to put it quite honestly, torture.

Robb doesn't bat an eyelid when Sansa tucks herself close to Jon's side - Jon thinks even  _she_ doesn't realize what she's doing; she's so fucking  _nonchalant_ sometimes, it feels like they're speaking two completely different languages.

They've never just hung out, never done  _anything_ quite like this since they started their- their  _fling,_ Jon supposes.  _Fling._ What an awful word. You don't mangle your heart up over a  _fling._

And Sansa's so good at it too, so  _efficient_  at managing him and the rest of her life - she wrangled a single in the on-campus housing block - and Jon's still not entirely certainly how she managed  _that;_ he remembers his time as a freshman at KL, getting a single would have involved murder and animal sacrifice, and possibly even a call to Dany, none of which, quite frankly, he'd been willing to risk his soul over - and all either of them ever has to do is text the other. 

_'Free?'  
_ _'Yeah.'_

And he's been  _careful,_ for fuck's sake, he really has, even when she's limp and flushed afterwards, and all he's ever wanted to do is tuck her body alongside his and sleep it off. Wake up hazy, and quiet, in a too-small bed that always smells like her vanilla-sugar bodywash and faintly, like lemons. Kiss her awake, see her blue eyes blink open a little confused, before she realizes it's him, and she  _smiles-_  

But that's never happened. It isn't  _allowed,_ to hear her say it. After they're done, she nudges him away, he pulls on his clothes, a little shaky every time, never meeting her eyes, pressing a hard kiss to her lips because he can't  _help_ himself-

He leaves.  
He always,  _always_  leaves.

She isn't  _interested_ in more. And, well,  _fine_. That's fine.

She's here now, though, her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin, citrusy and soft, knees pulled up, and all Jon can think of is  _her,_ the warm, trusting weight of her, the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the rise-and-fall of each breath, his heartbeat uneven, his breath exaggeratedly slow while he tries to suppress the ridiculous, overwhelming desire to curl an arm around her waist, bury his nose in her hair, kiss her until she's giggling and flushed, tell her she's  _loved,_ so  _loved-_

But then it turns out Sansa knows exactly what she's doing, because she runs her nails up his thigh, brushing his inseam, and Jon can't fucking  _ **breathe-**_

* * *

 

 

_"How was Ygritte?"_  
_"You're_ naked. _I'm not talking about other girls while you're- pull some clothes on, before you ask, for fuck's sake."_  
_"But my t-shirt's so far awaaaayyyyy."_  
_"Christ. Take mine, then. Here."_  
_"Oh god, this fits so well. Arya was right - I_ am _a giant ginger frea- What?!"_  
_"You look good in blue."_  
_"Shut it, you. Are y_ _ou two getting back together?"_  
_"...you're- you're alright with that? With me seeing someone else?"_  
_"Sure. I- yeah. 'Course I am."_ A smile, strained around the edges. _"I mean, I don't really have time for a relationship, you know?"_  
_"Right."_ Harsh, guttural. Painfully sarcastic. _"Does_ **Baratheon** _know about that? Or are you leading_ **him** _on t- that is-"_  
_"Get out."_  
_"What? San-"_  
_"Get the_ hell _out of my room! Right now, or I swear to god, I'll scream the bloody building down-"_  
_"Sansa! Jesus, what the hell?! I thought you two were dating!"_  
_"You're joking."_  
_"I'm not! Robb mentioned it, last week!"_  
_"Robb-! I'm not_ dating _Joffrey Baratheon, bloody hell! He's a vile, sadistic bastard, and nobody with any sense gets within ten feet of him. He_ hurts _girls, Jon. He's_ awful, _and only the most desperate sort of girls throw themselves at him. Addicts, callgirls who don't know any better. There's... God, there's a rumour he killed a girl last year."_  
_"Oh."_  
_"Yeah, 'oh'._ "  
_"Haven't they- Aren't the police looking into it?"_  
_"His grandmum's Joanna Lannister."_  
_"The senator?!"_  
_"Yup."_  
_"Fuck."  
__"Precisely."  
__"So you're- You aren't seeing anyone? Right now?"  
__"Um. No? I don't- Not really, no."_

_"Oh."_

 

 

* * *

When the movie's over, Sansa's practically light-headed with relief.

"Alright," Jon says, picking up his keys while she and Arya pull on their coats and wrap scarves around their necks. "I'll drop off the girls. Theon, you staying the night?"

"Yeah," Theon replies, nodding at the darkened TV screen and refusing to meet Jon's eyes, a pink flush rising up his neck. Clearly, someone's had one too many beers. Sansa rolls her eyes. 

"Great. We're out. Don't wait up, Robb!" Jon calls out, a little louder, wincing when a door crashes comewhere inside the flat. As he's leaving, Robb skids out of his bedroom, bright-eyed, yelling, "Is it her? Are you seeing her tonight? I want a name, Sn-"

Sansa  _wrenches_  the door closed, and ignores the weight of Arya's puzzled gaze, punching the lift button and shoving her hands in her pockets, examining the chipped linoleum floor of the corridor like it holds all the keys yo life's secrets. Jon stands behind her, careful not to brush her at all, and her stomach pitches wildly - she wasn't careful tonight, she  _wasn't,_ not at all, but the way he'd felt, warm and familiar, the scent of him, dark and woodsy, the way they fit together  _-_

She hadn't been careful. She hadn't tried to hide. For one evening, she had let herself pretend that he was hers, the way she was his. And  _god_ , it had been worth it.

* * *

 

 

_"I can't do this, Jon."_  
_"What?"_  
_"This thing- I can't-"_  
_"Is this about Ygritte?"_  
_"What? No. God, no, Jon, it's got nothing to do with her."_  
_"Then- I don't- I don't understand."_  
_"You don't need to. Look, it was fun while it lasted, all that jazz, but I'm done."_  
_"Well, bully for you, but I'm not. I'm_ not. _Just... Just talk to me, come on. Did I do someth- What's so funny?"_  
_"You didn't_ do _anything. This isn't_ about _you."_  
_"Don't feed me that line. It's not you, it's me, that's some rancid fucking bullsh-"_  
_"It's true! It's a cliche, but it's not you! It's me! I can't- I don't- I don't want you around, alright?"_  
_"You're lying."_  
_"Step back. Now, I mean it."_  
_"Don't_ lie _to me, Sansa. We've never- We've never lied to each other, have we? Don't start now."_  
_"I'm not-"_  
_"You are though, love. You have a tell."_  
_"That's not the point-"_  
_"That's_ entirely _the point. I'm going to kiss you now. Okay?"  
__"I- You-"  
__"Come on."_ A hand on her jaw. His breath, warm, fanning across her lips. His eyes, melting and sweet. _"_ _Let me."  
__"...okay."_ A trembling breath. Blue eyes, drowning in black. _"God, Jon, I- Yeah. Okay."_

 

* * *

"What the hell are you playing at?" Jon snarls, shoving the door to Sansa's tiny dorm shut, and stalking forward until the backs of her knees are flush against the frame of her single bed.

"I beg your pardon?" she snaps back, hands braced on his chest for balance, as if she wants to shove him away.

" _Don't_ ," he warns, curling his fingers around her waist, biting and heedless. They're pressed together in a way that's achingly familiar, and even this blindingly angry, he can feel the zip of her pulse, the way her eyes have begun to darken, the way her gaze flickers to his lips as if she can't help herself. "Don't fuck around with me, Sansa. You  _know_ what I'm talking about."

She inhales sharply at that, looking away like a kid caught with her hand stuck in the cookie jar, and for a brief moment, Jon wants to say, _'Hey... Hey, babe, come on, it's alright.'_  Kiss her, tell her it's fine, bear her down to mattress, taste her mouth, her tits, her cunt, make her feel  _good-_

"No," she denies, chewing her lip, but her fingers have curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, her legs spread a little wider as she shifts, to accomodate him, let him step a little closer, grind his hardening cock low against her belly - not for the first time, Jon's deliriously happy she's so bloody tall. "I don't."

Jon ignores that - the memory of her nails running up his thigh, cock twitching in his jeans while Inigo Montoya made declarations of murder and Robb sat right  _there_  is seared permanently into his brain. He'd thought he was going to have a fucking  _aneurysm_.

Jon slips a hand beneath her cotton shorts, cupping her cunt and hearing her whimper, the skin so soft and damp and hot even through her knickers, grazing a nail carelessly against her clit, feeling like a teenager fumbling in the dark, nipping at her jaw as her eyes widen and flutter closed.

He barely needs to bend to lick the ridge of her collarbone, a warned murmur drifting above him of, _'No hickeys, Jon,'_ that make his hands clench around her in shame and desperate anger - this could've been  _easy_ , if she'd just-

_"Why-"_ he asks, low and guttural, against her skin, before cutting himself off, squeezing his eyes shut. Her hands bury themselves in his curls, tugging him back so she can look him in the eye, and there's something painfully naked in the way she looks at him, frightened, a little bit lost.

"Why what?" she asks, so softly he can barely hear it. There is a cold line of sweat trickling down his neck - the dorm is stifling and they haven't turned on the air-con, and he shakes his head -  _It doesn't matter._ Instead he does what he always does, fists his hand in her hair, slants his mouth over hers, forcing her mouth open with a thumb on her jaw.

She opens for him with a low, keening whimper, tremors wracking her body, and he slips a thigh between her legs, letting her grind down shamelessly. She pulls away with a gasp, back arching, eyes tightly closed, sucking in her bottom lip, and jon can feel the heat of her cunt through the denim itself, hot and pulsing. She  _wants_ him, fucking  _hell,_ and Jon's not thinking, not really, when he noses the arch of her neck, feathering kisses over her pulsepoint, tasting her heartbeat under his tongue. When the kisses turn to bites he doesn't know, but she groans, rough like it's  _wrenched_ from her, and his hand cups her again, slipping into her panties, finding her slick and molten. 

He finds her clit with the heel of his hand, rubbing quick, jolting circles, and she keens, high and thready, hands wrapped around the back of his neck, her hips stuttering, losing their sinuous rhythm, whimpering, "Don't stop, don't stop, please, oh-" as if he'd ever stop, as if he'd  _ever_ let her go,  _god._

He kisses the skin behind her ear, tugs the lobe between his teeth - she cries out at that, shudders like she's flying apart,  _'Jon,'_ \- it's a drug, intoxicating,  _toxic,_ a rush he can't control - his teeth clamp over the soft, fragile skin of her throat, and her scream is a vibration against his lips before she comes, brilliant and fierce, nails biting into his neck, long, fiery strands of hair brushing the backs of his fingers where his arm is still wrapped around her waist.

Her eyes flutter open, and Jon pulls away, chest heaving, cock like steel, painfully hard and biting into the metal teeth of the zipper. Her fingers fly up to her neck where the skin is bright, brilliant scarlet, and-  _fuck._

"You-" she splutters. "You're not- How  _could you?!"_

Jon exhales, swallowing hard, throat clamping down on him.

"What if, oh god," she's muttering to herself, almost, "What if somebody asks, what am I going to-"

" _Is_ somebody going to ask?" Jon snaps back, involuntary, regretting the words the moment they're out. 

Her nostrils flare at that, blue eyes flashing in the darkness. "Oh, fuck you," she curses, a bitter twist to her lips, kiss-swollen and red. "What do  _you_ care?"

His answering laugh is wry, echoing. Something in his chest  _hurts,_ and Jon pretends it isn't his heart. "Not at all, love," he replies softly, ice in his veins draining the heat away. "I couldn't give a damn."

He leans forward to kiss her, chuckling when she turns her face away, hand still clasped around the darkening bruise, so his lips only graze the petal softness of her cheek. There's something final about it, about the air in the room, sultry-hot and humid, the hunch of her shoulders, the way her lips are pressed tightly together.

Jon's always known there was something finite about what they had, a fullstop in the future they had been rushing towards. But it's only been a month, and he was  _sure, so sure,_ that they'd have a little more time.

More fool, he.

* * *

 

_A lie, she tells herself - She isn't in love.  
_ _A lie, he tells himself - When this ends, he won't hurt._

 

_A lie._

 

* * *

The phone blares in the middle of the night, jerking Sansa awake.

Arya's name flashes on the screen, and Sansa swipes to answer, murmuring, "Yeah?", a little sleep-fogged. It's been an awful night - she hasn't been able to sleep at  _all._  

" _Sansa_ ," Arya says, her voice a hoarse, low scrape. In the background, there's chatter, plenty of it, the rustle and echo of someplace crowded. "Thank god."

Something's- Something's wr- "What's happened?" she asks rapidly. "You okay?"

"I'm  _fine_ ," Arya replies. "Sansa, it's-  _oh god,_ " her voice breaks, trembling and sounding younger than she's ever heard her. 

"What?" Sansa snaps, already sitting up, shoving the covers away. "Wh-"

"It's  _Jon_. Sansa, it's- He had an accident, and he's- We're at Baelor Memorial. Come quick,  _please."_

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'in the shallows' by daughter  
> lyrics from 'talk is overrated' by jeremy zucker, ft. blackbear  
> and yes, i did change the summary. well-spotted? it kind of works better tonally with the rest of the story, and also, just. i hated the original summary? thanks for reading!


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